Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

  It was a really good curry, one of the best Bill had ever tasted. They had called in at a small corner shop first and bought a few tins of lager and a bottle of white wine.

  After the meal, they sat in the back room, he on an easy chair, she on the sofa with Clive next to her and the bottle of wine on the table beside her. After a few glasses she shared the rest of her story with Bill. It was no fairy tale, nor did it have a happy ending.

  Skates had rescued her from her attacker. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and some very bad experiences from the Peace Convoy onwards. Truth to tell, she was probably in shock. Skates acted the gentleman all the way to London. He stopped off at a service station to put some food into her and then offered her a place to stay for the night. He took her to his flat in Notting Hill and showed her to a bedroom.

  ‘It’s all yours, darling,’ he said, ‘and it even has a key in the lock so you can feel safe.’

  Lucy was exhausted and took the bait. She had no option, really, and Skates had said he knew all of the commune squats so they could look them out the next day. As she told Bill, she didn’t even lock the door, she was that naive.

  The following day her Galahad took her shopping in the King’s Road and fitted her out, no expense spared. And, of course, when they went looking for the commune, she was wholly unprepared for the filthy condition of the squats. She didn’t have a name to ask for, anyway, let alone anyone she recognised from the Peace Convoy.

  So it was back to the flat, a meal out in a good restaurant, and all the while Skates telling her not to worry, she could stay with him as long as she liked, and bolstering her ego with constant flattery. He told her he was ‘in property’, and he certainly seemed to have a lot of money. There were more fancy restaurants, soon followed by the trendiest nightclubs, which meant more expensive clothes. It also meant limitless amounts of cocaine. Lucy had smoked plenty of pot with her hippie friends, but cocaine was a rich person’s drug, so her experience with it was limited. Skates was never without a supply, nor without a personal assistant, nearly always one Richard Warren.

  He worked her like a fish on a hook, thought Bill, or more like a butterfly in a spider’s web. It wasn’t long before Skates convinced her he was in love with her, and she moved into his bedroom. He was gentle at first – she was still not much more than a schoolgirl, after all – but that honeymoon didn’t last long.

  ‘I’m your bit of rough,’ he told her and was, sometimes, very rough, but she didn’t want to seem unsophisticated, so she put up with it. She also increased the amount and number of drugs she took. The clubs were full of them, and she knew all the right people now. Things got worse, however, when Ricky Warren became involved.

  One night Skates and Warren had both gone out, leaving Lucy behind in the flat. They came back drunk and, with as little ceremony as if he was offering him a cup of coffee, Skates gave Lucy to Warren to play with.

  Bill gasped, but Lucy didn’t appear to hear him.

  Unfortunately, that night was only the first of many, and she soon found that the only thing Skates liked better than hurting her himself was watching Warren do it.

  Skates and Warren had quite a history, she told Bill. They grew up together in some sort of children’s home on the Isle of Man.

  ‘Ricky’s a little younger than Darren, so by the time he got there Darren was already practically running the place. Apparently one night Darren came across a gang of older boys taking turns raping Ricky and he intervened. Not because of any finer feelings, mind you, but because they hadn’t gotten Darren’s permission first. Anyway, after that Ricky pretty much became Darren’s slave.’

  Lucy look up at Bill. ‘I suppose it just goes to show there are always reasons for why people are the way they are. I mean, there may even be a reason why Darren is such an evil bastard.’

  ‘Yes, lass, there are always reasons, but reasons are not excuses.

  Nothing could ever excuse what those two did to you.’

  Lucy looked thoughtful at that. ‘Anyway, my life became a blur of drugs and pain after that. Skates stopped even pretending to be my lover and started bragging about being my owner. ‘And what I own I never let go of,’ he’d say. And I’d been raised to be obedient, so I was used to discipline. I didn’t enjoy it; in fact I hated it. But it was familiar. I had learned to cope with it as a child and now, of course, I had all these wonderful drugs to help me escape into my head.’

  ‘How on earth did you end up married to the swine?’ Bill asked her.

  These glimpses into the hell Lucy must have suffered during her years with Skates turned his stomach. You don’t get to 67 without running into heartless pricks now and again, but he had never come across anything like this before. It horrified him.

  Lucy told him how, after he and Warren had been charged with arson, Skates had needed a good, cast-iron alibi. He thought that if Lucy married him, she could never act as a witness against him, and her testimony on his behalf would carry more weight. (Bill knew that was all cock, but if it was in Skates’s head, then no amount of learned council would shift it.) So it was a rushed registry office marriage with the detestable Warren as the only witness.

  ‘What about the other witness at the trial, the vicar?’

  ‘Someone they had their hooks into, I expect,’ said Lucy. ‘I never met the man, but he had to be bent to tell the police what he did. Bent or terrified. Probably both. Besides, Ricky pleaded guilty and swore Darren wasn’t with him, so what could they do? Ricky got five years, but was out in two.’

  ‘And how did you finally manage to get away from them?’

  ‘I became ill. Between the drugs and the abuse, I had a complete mental and physical breakdown.’ Lucy looked down at her hands. ‘There were… miscarriages. After the last one I tried to top myself, so I got sectioned.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Bill. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She smiled at him. ‘That was a few years ago now, but thanks. Anyway, after all that, I wasn’t any ‘fun’ anymore. This house was still on Darren’s books and it wasn’t worth much. One of his creeps had been living in it; it was Darren’s letterbox to keep the Notting Hill place private. So he divorced me and put half of this place in my name so I would have somewhere to live that he still controlled. He never lets go, remember? I can’t sell the place and he knows I don’t have enough money to leave. Thinking he has me trapped here probably makes him feel all warm and powerful.’

  Lucy had talked herself almost hoarse and looked utterly drained. Bill suddenly noticed the time and knew he had no chance of getting home that night; the last train from Paddington would have left already. He didn’t want to impose on Lucy or appear to be taking advantage in any way. He liked her. He saw her weaknesses, but he also saw a strength she probably didn’t realise she had, or had forgotten how to use. The woman was a bit of a mess, but he didn’t mind messes; he was one himself. He just didn’t want to add to her problems.

  Lucy solved the conundrum for him. Preparing to take the empty food cartons out to the dustbin, she turned to Bill and said, ‘There’s a spare room. I haven’t aired the sheets or blankets on the bed in ages, but will that do you?’

  ‘It will, and nicely. I really wasn’t relishing a long journey. I’m so tired I could sleep in a bath.’

  When Lucy came back, Bill got up slowly, his legs stiff with sitting for so long, and reached out and gently took her hand.

  ‘Thank you, lass. Sleep well.’

  She walked up the stairs, Clive at her heels, and went into her bedroom. Bill turned off the lights and found his way to the spare room. As he passed Lucy’s door on the landing, he saw that it had two Yale locks. It was not an ordinary domestic door but one of the heavy-duty sort used as a fireproof barrier in offices. It was there to keep things out, but Bill was afraid it also served to keep some things in.

  Chapter 7

  SUNDAY, 19 AUGUST

  Bill awoke the next morning in that half-conscious state that comes with the new da
y for nearly everybody except small children. Eyes blurred, mind dulled, and with gritty bits lurking in moist corners. Not to mention that the start of each day was now heralded by a body-racking coughing bout. He felt like shit.

  He sat on the edge of the small bed and ran through what he now knew, then made his way downstairs.

  Lucy and Clive were in the living room, some toast and a pot of coffee on the small table. Lucy looked tired, but relaxed.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ she said. ‘I could hear you coughing from here. You really should do something about that. Soon.’

  Bill smiled at her but said nothing. It was eight o’clock. They ate the toast, drank the coffee, and talked about nothing very much, the way friends do. And they were friends now. They both knew it, though neither of them could have explained it.

  Finally, Bill said, ‘I’ve got to get back to Somerset today. I’ll try for the afternoon train, but first I’ve got some errands to run. Will you and Clive come with me?’

  After only a slight hesitation, Lucy said yes, which pleased him. They walked to the High Street and Bill found a bank that had just opened. Lucy and Clive waited outside while he went in and drew out some money, then they went into a couple of shops and bought bread, cakes, and a whole box of dog biscuits for Clive. Little, ordinary, domestic things that somehow seemed special and pleasantly different from their usual solitary lives.

  Their walk back to her house took in the small park they had visited the day before. Clive dashed madly about, sniffing at and piddling on every tree, lamp post, and railing.

  ‘My Bess is far too much of a lady to do that,’ said Bill, and he told Lucy about his beloved gypsy dog. She held his arm as they walked back to the house. Bill liked the feel of that very much.

  As they neared the house, Lucy let go of his arm and Bill saw tension return to her features. He thought she looked like someone in a spy film checking for watchers. The past was never very far away from Lucy, and it never would be while she lived here.

  Once in the house, she seemed to relax again. She headed to the kitchen to make more coffee. Bill got out the cakes and put them on the paper bag they had come in, then opened the box of dog biscuits and fed a couple to Clive. Much tail thumping and drool resulted.

  Lucy came back in with the coffee and, seeing the cakes piled up on the split paper bag, started laughing. ‘You’ve been living alone for too long. You’ve lost what few social graces you might once have had. I’ll get the plates.’

  As she turned and went back into the kitchen, Bill heard a snatch of a song, quietly sung, that lightened his heart. They sat down opposite each other and shared the coffee and cakes.

  Time to get back to the real world, thought Bill. It saddened him, but he couldn’t stay much longer and things had to be done. He had a lot of thinking and planning to do. Thankfully, the train ride home would give him time to sort out in his head all that Lucy had told him yesterday.

  ‘Right, my girl,’ he said. ‘I have an idea to put to you.’ Lucy looked at him, anxiety reappearing in her eyes.

  Bill took his wallet out of his pocket and extracted most of the cash he had withdrawn from the bank earlier.

  ‘Here is £500 for you to be getting on with,’ he said, and held out the wad of cash to her.

  Lucy looked at him, astounded. ‘I can’t take that! We… we hardly know each other.’

  ‘Look, you need it, I’ve got it, and it will help you move forward and get out of that man’s clutches forever.’

  ‘But I’ll never be able to pay you back. This is daft of you. It’s really, really generous, but I can’t take it. I can’t.’

  Bill shook his head. ‘Money is just a tool, lass, use it like one. Please. I can afford it, really.’

  Lucy just sat there, not saying anything, and not touching the money Bill had now placed on the table.

  ‘Lucy,’ said Bill, ‘you have to get out of here and find a place where you can’t ever be tracked down by those bastards. Buy a car, some old banger that still goes, and when you have, get in touch with me, okay?’

  ‘But I hate going out the front door, let alone driving around. I haven’t driven for years, I’m not even sure I still can.’ She seemed near to tears. ‘It’s all too much, Bill. Too much too soon. I just can’t, I’m sorry.’

  Bill smiled at her. ‘Either too soon or too late. No, you’re probably right. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  He bent down to pet Clive for a moment, then said, ‘Keep the cash, but use it as you see fit. It’s a gift. Just a gift, that’s all, really. Here’s my address and phone number,’ he added, handing her a slip of paper. ‘I’ll have kicked Skates into touch within a week or two, and then you can come and stay for a bit, if that appeals.’

  They stood up and hugged briefly, then Bill left and walked away to the station and the journey home. He looked back at Lucy’s closed door and suddenly felt completely alone again.

  ~~~

  Bill’s journey back to Somerset was not a good one. As the concrete gave way to fields and countryside, his mind was still back in that terraced house in its suburban street. He tore himself up for interfering in Lucy’s life. And he had gone to London looking for answers, not to get himself enmeshed in someone else’s problems. Not to mention it would probably be stupid for Lucy to come to him in Somerset – the same county those bastards were currently living in – but where else could she go? At least from his place she could look for somewhere safe in which to start her life over again.

  The countryside rolled by as if it, rather than the carriage, was moving. Bill thought over all that Lucy had told him about Skates and Warren. It was clear that Skates himself was little more than a bully, though a seriously twisted one. Still, if he only had Skates to deal with, he would have sent him and his damned chairs packing. But Warren … Warren actually enjoyed causing people harm. Skates only had to point out his chosen victim.

  Lucy’s story played over and over again in Bill’s mind. He kept coming back to the phrase she used so often about Skates: ‘He never lets go.’ Never lets go, eh?, thought Bill. Never lets go. Just like the monkey and the nuts… never lets go.

  The sound of the train as it passed over the tracks, rhythmically clacking out the miles, turned into a chant: never-lets-go, never-lets-go, never-lets-go. The monkey and the nuts. It was an old parable. To catch a monkey, place a pile of nuts in a small wooden box. Make sure the lid is well secured. Put a hole in the lid just large enough for a monkey’s hand to reach inside, but not large enough for it to be drawn back out with a handful of nuts. And a monkey never lets go. Trapped by its own greed and stupidity. Trapped until it’s either released or killed.

  Bill’s train arrived in the late evening, and he decided to go straight to Miss Templeton’s to get Bess. His van had not picked up a parking fine, which pleased him, and the joyous greeting he received from Bess took his mind off the journey he had made in more ways than one.

  He reached his house, parked, and wandered around just to see if everything was as he had left it. He was tired and not minded to open the workshop that night, so just headed to the kitchen. In the small porch outside the door was an enamel bread tin he used as a mail box. It contained a couple of letters and some of the usual circulars.

  When he pushed the door open, he saw an envelope with his name written on it lying on his kitchen table. He opened it and read:

  Look forward to seeing you soon. Hope London was worthwhile. Keep healthy, D.S.

  The contents of the letter didn’t bother Bill – he was not at all surprised that Skates knew he had been to London – but the fact that it had been left on his kitchen table with the back door locked, now that was scary. Bill checked all over the house, every window and even the front door, which hadn’t been opened in years. Nothing, nothing at all to show how an entry had been made, and it had to have been a break-in because he was the only one with a key.

  He went out, followed by Bess, and this time opened up the workshop. The chairs wer
e where he had left them, still covered in blankets. Nothing here had been touched as far as he could tell. The workshop had an ancient, formidable padlock on a hasp securing the doors. The windows had never been opened and were covered in dust, so any marks of entry there would have shown.

  He went back to the house and, with the aid of a torch, looked closely at the lock on the back door. It was as old as the door itself and not exactly state of the art for burglar proofing. It never crossed his mind it would need to be, but tomorrow he would visit an ironmongers for a whole new bit of kit. Bill didn’t think he would have any more visits that night, but even so he didn’t go to bed until after he got a huge, rusty bolt on the kitchen door working again.

  Chapter 8

  MONDAY–TUESDAY, 20–21 AUGUST

  Monday morning Bill went into town and bought a good, modern lock. Though not happy about having to disfigure the old door to fit it, he felt better when it was on. And the other security stuff he had purchased as well: door chains, window locks, and the like. It all cost a pretty penny, but he didn’t begrudge the money as he would have done a week ago.

  He made his home, if not a fortress, then at least a more secure place than it had been. He really resented having to do this. In all the years he had lived there, he had never once felt insecure or even in need of strong gates. When he went to the pub he often left the kitchen door unlocked. The gate to his yard had not been closed in years.

  To top it all off, that afternoon he had an appointment with Chris Hall, his local GP. Bill’s cough was worse now than it had been even a few weeks ago, and that trip to London had really taken it out of him, so cancelling the appointment was not an option. He helped Bess up into the passenger seat of his van and off they went. It was almost like old times when they used to go to auctions or deliver pieces he had worked on. Almost, but not really.